David McElroy

The most lost people are those who don’t know they need to be rescued.

Needing others is discouraged in our culture. We get the message that we need to be tough — that we need to hide our wounds and fears and doubts. We’re told to put on a brave face. We’re told not to cry. We learn not to show our feelings. We learn to hide our vulnerability.

Mostly, we’re taught not to need anyone, because that’s a sign of weakness. In extreme versions, we even have labels such as “co-dependency.” It’s a psychological dysfunction. And that helps us justify our practice of numbing ourselves to our feelings in order to shut others out.

But what if we are designed to need each other? What if our nature means that every single one of us has deep needs and scars and vulnerabilities? What if we all need mutual rescue — a relationship where we can rescue each other?

I’m thinking about that today because of what a friend posted about his wife. She died today — and he’s grieving for the woman who rescued him.

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“What’s the most important thing you’ve learned about life so far?”

The question was deceptively simple, but I wanted to give a useful answer. A high school student told me his teacher had assigned him to ask this question to 10 random adults — outside his family — and then write about what they said.

There’s so much I could say to that question, because I’ve learned so much. I constantly feel as though I have to throw out at least half of what I’ve learned and start over, because I keep finding flaws in beliefs I used to accept as obvious. Much of what I write here is an attempt to chronicle what I’m learning and discarding as I change. What could I possibly say now to this teen?

“Love and beauty,” I finally said after I thought about it for a long minute.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew this was going to be hard to explain. The teen looked confused. So I tried again.

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I feel most alone when I’m in groups of people. I’ve always known that — and I’ve talked to others who feel the same — but I might have figured out tonight why I feel this way.

I grew up expecting an idealized version of humanity. Maybe it was the futuristic utopias that I saw in much of the science fiction I read and watched. Maybe it was the idealistic spirit of the age in which I grew up — a time when there seemed to be a widespread belief that an amazing future was right around the corner.

Or maybe it was just something about my own personality. I wanted the world to be amazing — and I wanted to be the one to make it amazing. I wanted to change the world. I wanted to lead the world. I wanted to be at the forefront of creating an amazing, loving and humane world.

Everything I imagined seemed so right and good — and so achievable.

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